Heal Me
by Tatharwen Took
Summary: Faramir and Eowyn. Book and movie mixed kinda...Begins after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Rated PG for romance. Please read and review!
1. Awakening

**Author's Note: the names at the beginning of each chapter signify whose point of view (POV) the chapter is in. Quotations are taken mainly from The Return of the King: "The Houses of Healing", and "The Steward and the King". All others are taken from the movies or related sections of The Lord of the Rings.**

_How can you see into my eyes  
like open doors  
Leading you down into my core  
where I've become so numb  
Without a soul  
my spirit's sleeping somewhere cold  
until you find it there and lead it back home _

-Wake me up-  
Wake me up inside  
-I can't wake up-  
Wake me up inside  
-Save me-  
Call my name and save me from the dark  
-Wake me up-  
Bid my blood to run  
-I can't wake up-  
Before I come undone  
-Save me-  
Save me from the nothing I've become...

_'Bring Me To Life' by Evanescence_

**Chapter I: Awakening **

Faramir

"_Is there a Captain here who still has the courage to do his Lord's will?" _

_I did not answer. I could not answer, even if I wanted to, for the lump in my throat. _

_He had said earlier, "Fealty with love, courage with honour, oathbreaking- with vengeance." He had glanced at me meaningfully when he spoke the last part. I had no answer for that either._

_So I bowed low and walked away. Then, just as I reached the great doors, standing like towering sentinels at the end of the hall, I turned. And the words that came out of my mouth surprised even myself. _

"_If I should return, think better of me, Father."_

_The guards on either side stiffened in silent shock. He was obeying? Obeying this-this folly, this madness? _

_I felt a bitter smile touch the corners of my lips. Yes. I would obey, no matter what the cost. My mind flashed back to a scene earlier that morning: the Halfling Pippin had taken his Oath. _

"_Here do I swear fealty to my Lord, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my Lord release me, or Death take me." _

_Easy words, easy to remember and stay by in the daylight. But when you got down to the hard truth of those words in the eternal twilight of the Shadow, they were solemn, stern, - and they bound you with cords of a surprising strength. Strength I had not realized when first I took this Oath, long ago as a mere boy dressed in armour too large for his slight shoulders, wide-eyed and longing to be like his older brother. Strength I had come to understand over the years, while I watched the borders and guarded, in Ithilien, in Osgiliath, in Imloth Melui. Strength that had reassured me, given me confidence when the Southern Haradrim seemed as numerous as the oceans' waves. Strength that now I resented, because it would not allow reason against this madness, would force all to give way in headlong suicide, would make dead Men of us all, or face the alternative of lost honour. _

_Well, I would keep my honour. "Show your quality!" The words were meant to be taunting, demeaning, but instead they hardened me, gave me stubbornness to carry out whatever my Lord wishes. And now I looked back to the long table and remembered that my Lord had not yet given his answer._

_Lord Denethor had taken my reply in silence, his outward signs of- anything- few and hard to understand: a tightening of his thin lips, his bony knuckles growing white around his goblet's stem, a flicker of eyebrows- that was all. And then he spoke: _

"_That will depend upon the manner of your return." It was soft, menacing, daring me to come back like the skulking coward he all too clearly believed I was._

_Somehow it didn't affect me as much as I thought it would. Perhaps now I was numb to all his attacks, his insinuations, his inflections of voice. I had no more feelings he could touch. Instead I thought of my mother, of this City, of Boromir. Boromir. He had defended this outpost, Osgiliath, Citadel of the Stars. I would take up his place, the place of the fallen. The place of glory and honour._

_When Mithrandir came to persuade me otherwise, I was immovable. "Where does my allegiance lie, if not here? I will gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory, her wisdom…" _

_I had meant those words with all my heart._

_When the arrows came, red with hate and anger and blood-lust, I seemed oblivious. All my concentration, all my will, was fixed on the outer walls of Osgiliath, lying in front of my meager line of cavalry. _

_The men were silent, as was I; quietly they had accepted the flowers the women had given them; flowers of regret and pain and death; they did not expect us to return. And we shall not, I thought. As we rode across the open plain, I turned in my saddle just once; once to see a last fading glimpse of my City before the final battle. Execution, more like. _

_We were almost to the first wall. The arrows flew thick, and more than half of my men were now gone._

_Words, like some half-forgotten rhyme, drifted through my mind, clear and clean-cut amidst all the dream-like fog. _

_And there are many paths to tread…through Shadow, to the edge of night…all shall fade…_

_Then let us fade with honour! My mind screamed suddenly, and rising in my saddle, I lifted up my sword, and opened my mouth to shout… _

I slowly felt the darkness slip away, or rather, be driven away, by what or who I could not yet tell. I felt sick, and cold, and light-headed, yet there was a tiny place of rest and peace within my mind. It- it was a smell. A fragrance. It smelt like- like, a memory; a memory of dewy mornings of unshadowed sun in some land of which the fair world in Spring is itself but a fleeting memory.

And then I rolled over, slowly, painfully, and the pain made me remember who I was, and all that had come to pass. I saw glimpses of the past. Osgiliath's ruined, crumbling structures, dark with the twisted figures of Orcs. The Southern dart, hot and clenching. Denethor, his eyes cold with despair. Pippin, pleading with him for- what? Oh. Yes. The torches and stacks of wood piled high on either side of me, blocking my vision. The greasy feel of oil on my skin. The fire, its heat welcome to my cold body, warm and inviting. And then…darkness.

So I had been saved. I had not been burned after all. Denethor was probably upset I didn't perish in Osgiliath, so he decided to take matters into his own hands, for once. A nice change instead of using me to do it for him.

But still…I tried to look around me, and found I could still see. The objects around me were fuzzy, washed-out. I squinted and tried again. This time, slowly, they came into focus. A bowl; round, blue, water steaming. A cloth, white in the darkness. A low table of dark, polished wood, its surface glossy as a mirror. Then my eyes went out of focus again.

I was in a partially darkened, quiet room. I stared up at the ceiling; it was smooth and white, high above me, smooth curves arcing into darkness. Faint light filtered through a curtain drawn across a small window, set high in the deep wall. The scent that had woken me filled this tiny room with peace.

I lay there for several minutes, as clocks count time, blocking everything from my mind except the feeling of cool linen against my skin, the quiet restfulness of this silence, the darkness around me, so different from the orangey-yellow flames that had surrou- No, don't think of that.

A soft current of air brushed my face, and I turned towards it. The door handle turned, and then a figure filled the open doorway, backlit. I could not see its face, but the light streaming in around it gave it sharply defined edges and hard shadows. The light also blinded me, and I turned away from it, the pain spreading to the rest of my body.

Another creak, and the door was shut, and I was in darkness again. Soft footsteps came toward me, and the figure sat gently on the edge of the bed, next to me. He leaned over me, and I saw a face that, though I had seen him but once before, I knew him instantly.

"My lord," I said, and found I could still speak, "you called me. I come. What does the king command?"

The Lord Aragorn smiled briefly and turned to the bowl of water, moved it closer. "Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!" He searched my face with keen eyes. "You are weary…"

I did feel weary. An ache had set in my bones like an old sore that never quite heals. He spoke words of comfort to me, but I could not hear them for the ringing in my ears. I felt ashamed of my weakness, and was angry and surprised with myself, but still felt guilty; I couldn't even rise to greet the King in the manner he should be greeted, with honour and glory and praise.

I said, softly, "For who would lie idle when the king has returned?" It was directed to myself, a reproach for my weakness.

But the King had heard, and answered gently. "Rest yet awhile longer. Farewell. I must go to others who need me."

_Others? _I thought foggily as I slipped back into my dark world of dreams. _What others? Who? _

I thought I felt the whisper of a kiss on my brow, right before I lost consciousness.

- - - - - - - -

I woke later that night, drenched in sweat. The healing fragrance had long since vanished, and the once warm water had grown cold. The pain returned with a jolt, and I shivered, icy fingers unable to feel the blankets as I tried to draw them up.

I had dreamt of my father, and in my dream, he had looked at me with hate-filled eyes, eyes that no longer even pretended to conceal his loathing and discontent for me, his unworthy second son. He said, _Your death was not prevented, merely put off. You will join us here. Soon. _

And then I saw Boromir, and he looked at me with sad, disappointed eyes. _You could not even save the country I dedicated my life to. _

_No! _I had screamed._ I tried. I gave my life, too, you know. I died to retake Osgiliath. _He merely shook his head.

_Boromir, _I tried again, growing desperate. _Please! Don't do this to me. Don't. _

Before he dissipated into the mist as Denethor had done, he turned to me once more. _You can live again, Faramir. _

He looked over his shoulder, at something far behind him. I looked past him, too, and saw Minas Tirith, ruined, smoking, chunks of shattered rock lying here and there, great segments ripped out of the battlements; the Pelennor Fields charred and torn up, corpses strewn in reckless abandon across its waste.

Boromir turned back to me. _Rebuild this land, this country; renew Minas Tirith to as it before the Shadow. You should be good at it, _he added bitterly. _Weak indecision is all you were ever good at. _

I woke up pleading with him.

Slowly I let my eyes travel up the wall to the window, saw it was dark behind the thin curtain. Night. I imagined I could see faint stars glimmering through the ragged, dull cloth. Suddenly I felt a strange, desperate urging to see them, the stars. I needed to know is they were still there, untouched in all their quiet majesty by the Shadow, needed to feel sweet night air on my now hot, feverish skin. I started to sweat again.

I raised myself on an elbow, then gasped as the pain jumped to a new level. My vision swam. I was surrounded by the flames again. The hard stacks of wood dug into my back. I drew in a breath, but my lungs only took in greasy smoke, and I coughed, choking on it. I could feel the fire cackling, getting closer…hotter and hotter…it caught the edge of my leather tunic…it was melting my hand now…

And then the air seemed to clear a little, and I could feel the hard edge of the table under my hand, cutting into my palm. I carefully lowered myself back into the bed and took a deep, shuddering breath.

_Fine job you made of it,_ I thought bitterly. _You have failed everything. Your father, your country, your brother, your men…you have even managed to break the oath you took. No, even though all your men gave their lives to reclaim Osgiliath for Gondor, you just had to make it through the slaughter alive. You were the only one. Why? Because you are without honour or courage. Because you are weak, without a single good quality, as the Lord Denethor said. Why don't you just die now, before you destroy anything else you love?_

I lay for some time, staring into the darkness, willing myself back to sleep. _Because I have already destroyed everything I care for and love. And now I can't even get up to see what I have done. _

_I wish to die now. How ironic; _I smiled in self-derision. _Faramir, Captain of Gondor. What a fine-sounding name. He is supposed to be strong, full of courage. He can lead his men to whatever end. He can conquer an outpost taken by Orcs almost single-handedly, as his brother did before him. And yet-_

I sighed; one moment I hated myself, and the next I simply wanted to stay alive. _I am not strong. I did not lead my men to victory; we were slaughtered, routed. I cannot even fulfill the merest whim of my Lord, I am nothing like Boromir. I lie here weak and dying, incapable of anything. I have truly failed._

A single tear rolled down my cheek, glittering in the starlight like a liquid diamond.

_Just die._


	2. The Lady Eowyn

**Author's Note: I'm sorry it took me so long to update! I don't even have a very good excuse; after finals for school ended, I spent two and a half days simply lying on the couch and either sleeping or watching chick flicks (specially chosen because they take absolutely no brain power whatsoever). I guess I'm just lazy. Anyway, thank you for being patient with me, and here is the second chapter. I'm not as happy with it as I would like, but I'll let you decide what you think. The same 'rules' apply as in the first chapter, so I won't elaborate on that. Because I like to get all my facts straight and be as accurate as I can, I figured out that at the time of the story, Faramir is thirty-six years old, and Éowyn is twenty-four. Also, Faramir is eight years older than Éomer, and twelve years older than Éowyn. One more thing. I am going on vacation for about a month and a half here (evil laugh), so I will not update for a while, but that does NOT mean I've forgotten you! Ok, thanks for listening to me ramble, and PLEASE review! **

**Chapter II: The Lady Éowyn **

_These wounds won't seem to heal _

_This pain is just too real _

_There's just too much that time cannot erase… _

_- 'My Immortal' by Evanescence _

-Faramir-

When next I woke, pale morning light was trickling in through the little window, sending a few bold shafts of sunshine streaming to sweep along the far wall. The cool blue bowl had been replaced with a cheerfully steaming pot of a fresh green colour. I leaned over to smell the tea in it and found that the pain was subdued; now it was just a dull throb in my core, deep down beneath my rib cage, where I could feel the blood rush and subside.

And- a miracle! - I could a faint twittering from outside, as of songbirds, or- or larks. I always have loved larks. They always seem so happy and full of life, even in nasty weather. I would watch them swoop just outside my window when I was bored. I remember I was always daydreaming as a boy, especially during lessons. Boromir was the wild one, running and wrestling and full of spark and challenge; while I was the shy one; I didn't talk much to people I didn't know, and I preferred to spend my time in my own world, a world where I could be whatever I wanted to be and do anything I could imagine.

But that was a long time ago. After I became a Knight of Gondor and swore my allegiance to defend her, I didn't have time for daydreams.

I sat up warily, still remembering the last time. To my immense relief, I felt no more than a sharp twinge in my side where the Southron dart had struck. Cautiously I pulled aside the bandages and peered at it. Dark blood crusted around the edges, but the skin seemed to be pulling together without much inflammation. The wound was small and shallow- it was rather surprising that it had caused so much pain and kept me so ill for so long. _But that was probably also a side effect from Denethor's reaction to my injury and his 'cure'. I am no healer, but I assume that nearly being burnt alive is not good for one's health, both physical and mental._ I smiled at the thought, the first simple, sincere smile I had had in weeks; no, months; then I looked around my room, slowly walking, delighted with my progress, careful not to strain my side, where the dart had struck.

It was a cheerful little place; they probably designed it like that to lift the sick man's spirits. High ceilings and white-washed walls made it seem bigger than it was; I discovered a tiny enclave to the left of the window; this contained a door of the same dark carven wood as the low table; and I found that the door opened onto a small balcony overlooking the gardens of the Houses of Healing. This lifted my spirits even more. _Some luck at last. _

I stayed there for some time, for I had become suddenly weary with the small amount of exercise I had done. I leaned against a thick stone pillar, and when my legs gave out, I let myself sink to the floor and bask in the sunlight, strong and warm out here.

There was no one out in the garden this early; the larks still swooped and twirled undisturbed; the misty air still a crisp chill to it; the dew still glimmered on the clipped grey grass and translucent tree leaves and nodding flower buds.

There was another balcony to the right of mine; it was empty, save for a small sparrow hopping along the railing, pausing every few feet to cock its head and peer at the engravings of leaves and twisting vines with bright little bird eyes.

At last I returned to my room, and had a light breakfast of tea and some white cakes I found next to the teapot. In the middle of my second cup of tea, a maidservant came almost noiselessly in and placed an alabaster flask on the table, keeping her eyes lowered. After she cleared some of the empty plates and picked up a few of the damp cloths still lying on the floor, she made a low obeisance to me and backed out of the room, her white healer's cap bobbing all the while.

When she had gone, I reached eagerly for the flask across the table. It proved to be rich red wine, helpful to the spirits and curative for the body. I found it gave me strength- and courage- to venture outside my room.

I was cautious, glancing both to the left and to the right, and over my shoulder, when first I crept out into the long spacious halls. But as I got through first one hall, then a second, then across a plaza, always skirting at the edge, hugging the walls, I began to imagine I had become invisible, somehow. It was an eerie feeling; everyone seemed to be looking not quite in my direction, or they simply looked straight through me; the one man who accidentally looked me directly in the eyes merely nodded and touched his brow in a salute. I came to appreciate it, though; I had had too much of the wrong kind of attention from my father to enjoy being the center of it for too long.

I had no clear destination in mind; just to get out, to prove to myself that I still could do something useful.

The Houses of Healing was a place of much activity: the sound of water dripping in basins, the women's skirts rustling softly, the quiet moans from the gravely ill, and the cries of joy from the recovering; all filled this place. The scent of a thousand different herbs, pungent and minty and bittersweet, drifted about and mingled until it smelled like a marketplace.

Eventually I came to one of the many doors, where I sat on a bench and watched people move in and out into the bright streets where the noise and chaos still filled the war-ruined city; in here it was quieter, even with the bustling and busyness. For a while I simply sat and enjoyed the feeling of laziness: I had nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing to fear. I did not have to keep alert for the next possible enemy, I did not have to worry about the safest way back to the nearest hideout.

Once in a while I even saw someone I knew: one of my Rangers from Ithilien, a member of their families, a particularly friendly guard. They were the only ones who willingly acknowledged I existed. When I saw them, and they saw me, we smiled and waved, maybe even exchanged a few words of greeting. But that was all. They had their errands to attend to, and I should not be disturbing them.

I began to grow tired again; even the wine could not keep me up forever. I began to make my way back to my room, glad I had marked a path in my mind. I stopped in the main plaza to rest for a few minutes, and I helped a healer woman bind a wounded man's leg; it was torn and the muscle was badly damaged, but the wound was washed clean. The entire time the woman did not look me in the eye; her gaze rested somewhere on my left shoulder. She merely said 'Thank you' when we had finished, and smiled encouragingly at my tunic sleeve.

I had to stop again outside a door not far from my room; I could see my own door not fifty feet away, but I had to rest, or my legs would give out.

As I recovered, I heard hushed voices speaking from within. "Alas! For she was pitted against a foe beyond the strength of her mind or body…" I recognized this voice as the Lord Aragorn's, and I dragged myself forward to the doorway to hear better and peered into the gloom.

The King sat on his heels at a low bed pulled against the wall. His companion was a young man, probably not much younger than myself; he bore armour worked of leather and metal and was strong-looking, with thick shoulders and well-muscled arms, but his face bore a look of worry, and always his gaze was drawn from the King's to the bedside.

On the bed lay a young woman, so like to the man in form of face that she looked to be one of his close kindred. Her bright hair gleamed with pale gold upon her shoulders, and her face, though stained with dirt and blood and grime, was lovely. Delicate yet sinewy hands lay crossed on her breast; she looked slight, even fragile, but something told me that she would not break easily. Even grievously injured and filthy, I thought she looked the fairest lady of a house of queens.

I was startled to see that she too wore armour, and at her side was a sword scabbard; but where her sword had gone, I could not tell. She lay quietly, save for the occasional murmur or a twitching in her left arm; the right arm, the sword arm, hung nearly motionless; it seemed there was no life in it. She was still, so still, too still; at times I thought she had stopped fighting for life, but then she would give a shallow gasp and her chest would rise almost imperceptibly.

I was brought out of my thoughts as Aragorn continued speaking with the young man, who was apparently called Éomer and was the woman's brother. I forgot about returning to my room and shifted closer to hear better.

The Lord Aragorn gently wrung some of the water out of a cloth and laid it on the lady's forehead. Éomer leaned forward in his concern. Aragorn glanced at him and sighed.

"It was an evil doom that set her in his path…for she is a fair maiden…" he continued, but my thoughts were racing when with a jolt I realized that "he" was _him_. The Witch-King. The Black Captain. The one who had nearly killed me. And apparently her too. _A truly evil doom, for one so fair to battle with- no- don't think about that. _

"And yet- I do not know how I should speak of her." The Lord Aragorn spoke of the Lady now. "When first I looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet…" He paused, as if trying to find the right words. "I knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die?" He continued gently. "Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not, Éomer?"

Éomer rocked back on his heels, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown of concentration and wonder. He began slowly, perhaps as if unsure of where his point was headed; but as Aragorn listened in silence, tending to the woman's broken arm and wrapping it gently, his voice grew stronger.

"…Care and dread she had, and she tended to the king in growing fear. But that did not bring her to this pass!" As he finished, his love and worry for the lady radiated from his voice.

There was a slight rustling in the back of the room, and Mithrandir suddenly became visible, sitting on a chair onlooking, his white robes luminescent in the darkness. He leaned forward on his staff.

"My friend, you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man…and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned upon."

_As did mine_, I thought.

Mithrandir continued, "Do you think that Wormtongue had poison only for Théoden's ears?...My lord, if your sister's love for you, and her will still bent to her duty, had not restrained her lips, you might have even heard such things as these escape them."

Éomer looked up sharply as if startled. His blue eyes, clear and bright with unshed tears, betrayed him; but then something softened, and he looked at his sister with new vision, as if he were seeing her for the first time and was silent.

"But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?"

Then all were silent, watching her lie still and motionless on the pallet. Éomer slowly reached out to her and stroked her hair gently. After a few moments, he whispered, "Éowyn?" There was no response from the lady. He bit his lip, swallowed hard, put a hand on the floor to stand up.

The King said, "I saw also what you saw, Éomer. Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man's heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned…

"I have, maybe, the power to heal her body, and to recall her from the dark valley. But to what she will awake: hope, or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know. And if to despair, then she will die."

I turned away. We were both still captive to a Shadow that had not yet passed. We were still hurt, trapped inside ourselves, forced to become someone who we weren't and wear a mask to the world.

_Yet one look at her face tells me she hid it beneath silence and dignity and honour. I was unable to hide mine behind the mask. _

_And even as I did, she rode to her death, and she too was somehow spared from the slaughter. And yet…she has gained the glory she sought for, has died the death of blood she wished for; she has emptied herself of the tiredness and pain and refusal and circling questions of reproach; I have not. I should be the one lying there pale and dying, not her. _

When I reached the safety of my rooms I collapsed in the single chair in the room, unable to force myself to stand any longer. The pain in my side had returned, and I tried to ignore its burning. I felt dizzy and light-headed, and as I gripped the arms of the chair, I half-imagined there would be finger-marks burned into it when I let go. Some time later the healing woman reappeared to redress my side.

When she undid the wrappings, and applied salve to it, and her fingers slipped and jabbed pain into me, I clenched my teeth as the breath whistled between them; but my thoughts went to one who lay motionless, unable to feel pain, save for in haunted dreams clogged with memories.

When she finished she told me, in a voice forced to be too cheerful, that I was healing well and that the worst was gone with the athelas, and that all I needed to do was rest and eat well, and that would help me gain the weight I had lost in the fever and put colour back in my cheeks, and that when the wound was completely healed, wouldn't I like to go down and regain my old strength in the practice fields? Her words fell on ears turned to stone, and I thought of she who would not go down to the practice fields for a long time, if ever again, who it would be rare to see with a flush on pale cheeks, or with a spark in those deadened eyes that did not long for life.

When the woman left me at last, I sat curled up in the shadows against the wall on my balcony and forced all thought and feeling and memory from my mind, until I was numb, an empty shell from which all life would drain, if poured in at all. I sat and watched the sun set, and the Moon rise, and the stars flower and wheel above, and the trees sway in the night; andI listened to the trees whisper to each other,and the night-birds coo to each other, and the Sea murmuring in its sleep; and the Moon set and the stars faded, and one star fell and disappeared forever, and there was nothing but the silent dull grey of despair that comes before dawn.


	3. Captain of Gondor

**Author's Note: These notes just keep getting longer and longer, don't they? I'll have to start working on my wordiness. Thank you all for your lovely reviews; they encourage me and, unfortunately, boost my self-esteem (which does not need any help). However, this does not mean to stop! PLEASE continue with your comments and help: I absolutely love reading them. Also, Lena is my creation (finally a person who belongs to me!). Even though she doesn't play that big a part (really!), I know some people believe each and every 'unorthodox' (or original) character must be pointed out as such in the disclaimer. Which reminds me that I haven't had any disclaimers in this story yet. All right, here goes. big breath DISCLAIMER: No person, animal, beast, creature, place, or thing in or of the wonder-full world of Middle-Earth belongs to me (sadly), although I wholeheartedly enjoy playing with Tolkien's creations end of disclaimer. How was that? It'll have to do since I haven't had much experience with writing disclaimers as of yet. I'm hoping to have more original dialogue in the next couple of chapters, but dialogue is one of my weak points and I'm not sure how well I'll do. Also, I'm not very good at coming up with chapter titles or even the title of this story, if you haven't noticed. And I wrote most of this chapter while watching The Phantom of the Opera, so if there's a line that sounds funny, or the grammar is skewed, it's probably because I wasn't giving it my full attention (oops…). However, I would like to point out that Éowyn's POV is _supposed_ to be in present tense (I wasn't that mixed-up…). But please, keep reading and remember to review! Tatharwen Took **

**Chapter III: Captain of Gondor**

'_My tree self, my deer self, my sunshine self. Don't we outweigh the dark self?'_

_- Sunshine by Robin McKinley _

-Éowyn-

_The sun had shone brightly then, and his hair was the colour of dappled honey. The chilling wind had whipped the long grey-green grasses of the Plains of Rohan into a tossing Sea, had blown his hair into his eyes. The sky was a brittle blue, a hard metallic blue, pale compared to his piercing indigo eyes, eyes he seemed to be able to peer into my heart, my mind, my very soul with; and he had said, "You are fair and brave, and have much to live for, and many who love you."_

_The ring of conviction in his voice told me he truly believed those words and spoke them from his heart. I had given him a weak smile that did not warm me, and I could only think 'How little you know of me. How very little. It makes my heart ache, the woman you see. How strong, how admirable, how needed she is. You have seen few women, and so you think me beautiful; I ride to battle without fear, so you say I am brave. You have not seen the utter emptiness of my soul, have not touched the cold despair I touch every day, have not felt the numb inability to feel emotion as I have; so you say I have many things to live for. I am surrounded by people, and so you think I am loved…'_

_But I could not say that, not to him, not to anyone. So I had simply smiled and gone back to helmet-polishing. How I had wished later I had run to him then, had thrown my arms around him and held him tight. I do not believe I shall ever see him again now. _

They tell me I have been in this place for six days.

On the third I woke and found myself still alive; I had turned my face to the pillow silently, trying to hide the disappointed tears I could not stop.

They forced me to stay in bed for three more days, but on the morning of this day, the sixth, I told them I will not stay in this room any longer, despite the pleadings and wide-eyed apprehension of Lena, the healer's apprentice, who watches over me in the nights. I loathe my room. I suppose it is nice enough, but it is so small, hemming me in, and there is only one window, high in the wall; it does not look East. The sheer whiteness of the smooth walls and the ridiculous soothing of the quiet-voiced women serve simply to convince me that this place, before the War, used to be a haven for those not quite right in the head. And in the night when I wake the walls are so close they seem to be leaning over me, confining me in a bed suddenly grown cold and hard, which I don't mind. Sometimes.

Other nights I do mind, quite a lot. I dread nightfall every evening, and every morning I am relieved when dawn sends a few trickles of light sweeping along the walls; for I did not dream, and I am afraid of what I would dream, trying to ignore the little voices everywhere: in the cool water, in the crisp linen sheets, in my own head, whispering _wouldn't it be wonderful just to lie down on the bed and stay there forever? You have been denied your death of glory and hard-won honour, but there are other ways. _I am confused. I do not think I wished to die. _But that is why you rode to battle, isn't it? To escape your living death, set up on your uncle's throne like the weak-spirited creature they take you for, to rule in a kingdom that will not stand for another month, because of course you are only a woman. You could never hold a sword, or ride a horse passably, or willfully kill anything, much less an Orc. You have tried for so long to show them otherwise, and when you saw no hope in forcing them to understand, you rode in search of Death. Death…_

I am achingly weary of being controlled by men, men who do not understand me. They smile and nod and pretend to listen to me, but in their own minds I can see them saying, Hear this wayward child talk; how she longs to grow up and be a hero, be a queen, be someone important, lifted far above the mean things of the earth. _No! That is not what I wanted. I _loved_ him. _I wish I could scream; I wish I did not have so much pride that it prevents me from lashing out against this captivity._ That is not what I wanted. _

_But it is_, the little voices say, reverberating inside my skull. _Wayward child_, they say.

Éomer, dearest brother, came this morning. Though his blue-grey eyes were filled with worry and hopefulness and hesitant love— hesitant because he does not know how it will be accepted— for his wayward sister who refuses to act as a sister should, he fidgeted and stammered as I have never seen him fidget and stammer before. Éomer was always the bold older brother; words were not his craft: when he could not get through something with a few curt sentences, he was used to forcing his way through. But violence will not help him here. He wants to help me, to protect his younger sister, but when I refused to be protected and rode to the Pelennor Fields without his knowledge, I caught him off-guard; he is trapped, uncomprehending. It's almost funny, really. Almost as if we have switched roles, and he is the younger and I am eldest.

A verse drifts through my mind; it had been one of Éomer's favourites, from one of the lays of the old kings of Rohan, ancient even in the days of my uncle's grandfather:

From out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising

I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.

To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking:

Now for wrath, now for ruin and for a red nightfall!

_**That** was what I wanted. But do I still want it?_ I sigh, bow my head. I had a terrible headache those few final days.

On this day, the sixth, I woke, felt the cool sheets, the silky white pillow I'd resolved not to touch again until the evening bells toll their mournful peals for the dead. A thought, unbidden, crept into my mind, made its presence known: _I wish the bells would toll for me. I wish I could just die. _

_Stop that! Will nothing rid me of this awful habit of thinking these death-thoughts, these dreams of blood? I wish— _A feeling of disgust curled in the pit of my stomach. _Wishes are nothing but rotting might-have-beens. _

It's louder out here than in my room, the piping voices of children in the street cheerfully drowning out the argument I am having with myself. Here there are narrow beds, lined in straight rows and aisles, for common soldiers. I suppose only those of higher rank or social standing are given a private room, and I allow myself to be faintly flattered that I am considered one of the 'higher rank'. Shallow pools of clear water are set into the floor under arches and in the middles of hallways, seemingly for no reason, inlaid with tiles no bigger than my thumbnail in colours of turquoise and gentian and azure. Healers dressed in white and grey and dun bustle about, fetching bowls, dressing wounds, mixing salves.

The whole city, it seems, is passing through here, and every one of them knows something. I see it in their eyes, in their movements, in their tone of voice: something has given them hope. And not just the people are saying it; the long fronds of ferns drip it into pools, the pools murmur it to the walls, the walls fling it to the winds, the winds whisper it to everything they touch, _The King is here, the King has come, has come at long last, the King for whom we have been waiting has come. _

It reminds me of that night, when I so thoughtlessly went to him, told him not to leave me, told him I loved him, told him I wanted to follow him any where, even to Death. And he, brave heart, gentle heart, had found room for some little bit of caring in his heart, and told me what I did not wish to hear, told me what I had refused to see, told me my love was not for him, could never be for him. _You were wrong!_ My mind screamed. _I died that day; I will never love again._ And when he rode down the Road that could only lead to death, I said in my heart, I will follow him to Death. If he is gone, if I cannot have this one wish of mine, then I will no longer live on this green earth.

_Wayward child, _the little voices say.

A man, still dressed in the loose robes the Head of the Houses issues to all patients, slowly pushes himself out of bed and onto firm, if weakened feet as I find myself slowing to watch him. In his gaunt face is a new light of hope as he sees himself take at first one step, then two, three, now four. Thoroughly determined, he apparently calls for his sword, because it is brought to him. I look on, fascinated, as he clumsily drags it from its sheath as if he has never held one before, fingers suddenly grown stiff at this familiar weight made unfamiliar by lack of use; then he experimentally swings it in a short half-arc. Encouraged by the jesting remarks and faint cheering from his fellow bedmates, he feints to the left and parries the downward stroke of an invisible foe.

I turn away. My sword-arm still feels cold at all times; nothing, it seems, can warm it all the way. True, the skin had grown warmer to the touch, and I can stiffly bend and unbend those fingers if I concentrate hard, but down in the core my marrow seems like the impenetrable ice of thick Winter. My left arm, the shield-arm, is in a sling, and every so often I forget and twitch it, sending a shock up through my shoulder and down into my fingertips.

"_War is for men, Éowyn,"_ my brother had told me. I had laughed, had carelessly told the handsome Ranger who was not only a Ranger, _"The women of this country have learned that those who do not wield swords can still die upon them." _That was true, but now I begin to wonder if it is the best way. Not that I want to spend the rest of my life being used by men as a crutch, a pawn, another child to take care of and tend to. That was why I had ridden to battle, refused to be left behind even as Merry had refused.

_No more despair_, my uncle had told me. But Théoden is dead, and I cannot help wondering what it was that lay in my heart that day, that grim morning after I was forced to hear the truth I had shut out. Was it despair? _"A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!" _Glad for him. Golden with glory, the glory of the fallen. But is it despair to search for Death, to welcome Death when it seems that all life is drained out of you, all that makes life truly and wholly real— and worth living— is taken away?

I have no answers any more.

_Wayward child_, the little voices say.

After watching the man practice with his sword, my mind takes me back to when I was a small child with huge, dark eyes who practically worshiped her older brother. I remember Éomer shyly giving me my first sword for my birthday, teaching me how to hold it, rearranging my fingers on the leather hand-grip, showing me how to parry and thrust and feint under an opponent's blow, eagerly dueling with me as I progressed. He taught me in secret, taking me out to the practice fields when the adults were hunting or talking at one of their endless feasts. I smile involuntarily: there was no match for the surprised, half-stunned look on his face the day I had slammed Windfola's grey shoulder into his horse's, my blade clashing with his, hilt to hilt, and had dumped him out of the saddle with one mighty heave.

A shudder runs through me as I realize that the motion my shoulder uses to unhorse a person was the same one I had used to heave my sword at _him_, thrusting its glittering tip into the awful empty space between evil crown and black-clad shoulders. The -something- had been sucked up the length of the blade, forcing its way into me, invading my very thoughts, rushing into every cranny and niche of me and back to my core to dance its rhythm of whirling, malevolent triumph, triumph even though I had killed it, triumph that it would take me with it, and I half-fancied I could hear words in its maelstrom of enveloping wind. And then…_No! Stop!_ Frantically I grasp at whatever thought comes to hand first, trying to avoid directly remembering that final battle.

After that day Éomer and I fought more as equals; and the light in his eyes and the fixed grin on his face had changed from the sturdy concentration of a teacher to the eager enthusiasm of a man who has found a challenge. There were nights when we would audaciously slip off together to ride under the moonlight, at first doubled up on his horse, my arms clasped tightly around his waist; then as he taught me to ride and fight from horseback, on separate horses, flying across the plains like twin shadows under the stars, the wind whipping our hair back. Sometimes we were able to get Théodred to join us on these midnight rides, and the insipid nannies and teachers would ask why we all three persisted in giving each other secretive, knowing grins behind our elders' backs.

Those were good days. But I still remember when the King changed, ever so slowly; at first it was just little things: an uncharacteristic gesture with his hands; a queer expression, glimpsed in a flash, sliding across his face; an unwillingness to buckle on his sword and go hunting. But it began to grow, and soon it seemed to me that they would have to be blind not to see he was not Théoden anymore, not the joking uncle who cared for me as if I were his own daughter instead of an orphaned and undoubtedly poor relation; he was something else, somebody I didn't know, somebody evil. _Possessed. _

I sigh. I should be getting back to my room, and I notice dully that my knees have started to tremble. Perhaps they were right that I should have waited to move about. A bell chimes the hour, high in one of the domes of these lofty ceilings. Two o'clock in the afternoon. It is a cold day; the morning mist is still drifting about outside, and a wisp of breeze from an open door makes me struggle to draw the shawl I had absently picked up from the table in my room about me with only one hand, and that only a half-useful hand.

When I finally return to my room, Lena jumps up and begins to chafe the warmth back into my hands, obviously relieved I have come back before her master found that she had let me escape. She is still somewhat in awe of me, though, for whatever reason, and the scolding I can see she would like to give me is reduced to murmuring and clucking as she feels my cold hands and face. I yawn and contemplate my bruises, which seem to be spreading. _Soon I'll be purple and blue and orange all over,_ I think wryly._ At least it's a change from deathly pale. _

Apparently I am to have a bath today, and hesitantly I ask her if I might not bathe myself this time. I feel Lena's hesitation as well, but when I complain of feeling like a newborn babe, always being hand washed with sponges and waited on hand and foot, and never getting thoroughly clean anyway, she reluctantly agrees she will simply wash my hair this time. I let her have her victory; my hair is long and thick, and has not been properly smoothed or cleaned since…before the battle, anyway. I quickly turn away from the memory of those unpleasant events.

Lena triumphantly reveals a basin, hidden beneath the wardrobe set into the wall opposite my bed. It's pewter, nearly plain, but with a few faint graceful scrolls worked into the metal around the handles. She pulls it into the middle of the floor and spends several minutes producing buckets of water from somewhere –probably hidden up her sleeve- and pouring them into the basin, until it's almost full; then she helps me out of the robes they have given me. I sit, balancing, on the edge of the basin for a moment and swish my weary feet in the water; Lena grimaces and hisses with sympathy over my bruises.

The basin is just big enough for me to kneel in comfortably, but it's high enough that the steaming water nearly covers the tops of my shoulders. I'm rather surprised at how good it feels to wash away the filth of battle completely, to get _clean_ again; while still refreshing, sponge baths are not the same. I unbind my snarled hair and gratefully sink beneath the water's surface, looking up at a wavering circular world, and I find myself wishing I can stay here, underwater, away from duty and responsibilities, free of pain and horror and regret. Finally I have to come up for a breath, resigned to staying in this world.

Once my hair is thoroughly wet, Lena hands me a dazzlingly white cake of soap and tells me to wash the rest of me while she deals with my hair. Now that it's wet, an appallingly heavy stench of horse –_dear Windfola_, I think- wafts through the air. Beyond a doubt, Lena smells it, for she laughs and gently rubs a palmful of shampoo through my hair, and a scent like wildflowers rises with the steam. I smile. _I'll bet Éomer's shampoo doesn't smell like flowers. _

While I bathe, she tells me interesting bits of news about Lord So-and-so, clearly trying her best to make a match for me, and so on, though I have already warned her of mentioning the Lord Aragorn in my presence. When I ask, she tells me that the Pheriannath Meriadoc is being cared for in this same house. At last a good piece of news. I will have to visit him soon, if he does not come to see me first. She continues on to mention that there is an important patient in the room next to mine, a captain of the ranks of Gondorian soldiers, apparently the son of the late Steward himself, and that many others in the Houses are of great rank and standing as well.

I finally climb, dripping, from the bath, and Lena wraps me in a robe of red, magnificently red, so rich and velvety that even the shadows of its folds are like rose petals. As I sit on the low backless chair my thoughts wander, and Lena begins to work through my hair's tangles with a wide-toothed comb. _Better her than me,_ I thought cheerfully, _and she is very gentle_. Lena's hair falls in orderly waves past her hips, so she must have had practice, but hers is sleek and dark, and frames her face and twists into a knot at the nape of her neck smoothly; I look at her with envy. My own hair is almost as long; it falls nearly to the small of my back, but it's wild and loose and has a tendency to escape the ribbons and pins it is put into, and pieces are always getting caught in things –my armor, for example- and snapped off, so my hair tapers and looks messy and swirls madly about my face and arms whenever there's the least bit of wind.

Halfway through, Lena seems to remember something rather important, for she starts with a squeal and drops the comb. When I glanced back over my shoulder inquiringly at her, she announces that she forgot that she was supposed to report to her master at half-past three, and she then proceeds to dump the bathwater over the balcony into the gardens, whisk away the towels, and stow the basin back under the wardrobe, while I watch with much amusement. After she completes this, she stands in the middle of the floor, shuffling her feet, asks me if it is all right for her to leave me alone for a few minutes, and she looks at me shyly with a smile hovering in her eyes, so I grin and flap the edges of my clean robe at her, and she smiles happily and leaves.

I pick up the comb from where it's lying on the floor and look at it, turning it over in my hand. The wood is golden-red cherry wood, lacquered with a clear layer that makes it glow in the soft light. The finish is scored and scratched with much use, and the handle is wide and awkward in my hand, but the teeth are familiar, and that's all that matters. I find a small hand-mirror in the night-table by the bedside and manage to prop it against the wall at various angles until I can see my face in it. I part my hair gravely and shake it back over my shoulders, where it falls, heavily, almost to my hips –it's longer when wet- and makes dripping noises on the wood floor. I do not want to leave a trail of water-drops wherever I go, and the floor has an annoying tendency to become slick when it gets wet, unlike the reed floors of Meduseld, so I fiercely tie and pin my hair as I had tied and pinned it under my helm all those final days of secrecy; it feels strange to have it swinging loose again.

Just as I am considering the fact that a walk outside might bring some colour into my face, Lena comes back carrying a bundle, looks at me and realizes she has not finished with my hair; and then she sets her bundle on the table and politely but firmly refuses to do anything else until she has finished her task. She takes the pins out and insists on redoing the part in my hair; then she weaves a glimmering white ribbon through it but lets it tumble down my back, so I have to flick the end of it aside when I sit down.

The bundle reveals a simple white dress, smooth and silky, that reminds me of the white dress I left in Edoras, the dress I was wearing the first time I saw Aragorn, and was struck both by love and pain, love because— why does anyone love? — and pain because I knew the love was in vain from our first meeting, knew in my heart of hearts, and chose to ignore it.

After all is cleared away, I am left standing in the middle of the floor with my sling back in place, suddenly feeling very tired. Lena offers me food, and I refuse, though I am hungry. She makes me eat a little, though, perhaps on orders from her master, and I realize I'm famished. She smiles shyly as I wolf the white cakes and strong red wine down, too hungry to be polite.

Well, she seems to be doing nothing but cleaning this already spotless room, and as she doubtless has orders to keep me in my room for the rest of the day, I might as well see what the balcony looks like. I slowly open the door and step out onto the covered porch carefully, holding onto the railing for support. It looks out onto the gardens, and all is silent and carefully washed clean of any sign of life, so unlike the rest of these houses. To my right is a high wall of blank, smooth stone encircling the gardens, and to the left…

I stop, frozen in his gaze. He stares back at me, silent, looking as though he would not speak even if he could find words to say. He is dressed in loose robes, and his feet are bare; his hair is loose and dark and curls until it does not quite touch his shoulders. Though his position appears relaxed and easy, there is something watchful in it, like a wild thing, and his hands grip the rail as though it were the only thing keeping him up. His face is pale and displays a mixture of emotions: wonder, hope, grief, pity, empathy, guilt…

What gaiety I felt before has evaporated like the bath steam, and I am left staring into this man's haunted eyes. I've never seen him before, yet I know instantly who he is, and, there is- something- about him. Something akin between us. It makes me angry, that I do not know what it is, and I am beginning to feel resentful that he should stare at me, stare into me with pity so boldly in his eyes.

I wrench my eyes away from his gaze with a start and, though my heart pounds as though I were running, I force myself to march inside with quick long strides, practically slamming the door behind me.

I stop in front of my bed, my chest heaving with my anger. _I do not want his pity!_ Or any man's, for that matter. I will no longer let them look down on me as a small child with great dreams of glory or being a hero.

Lena has disappeared. I stare once more at the loathed bed with cool hatred, an understanding between me and it, and think of the vow I made. I know he's still outside, watching my balcony, and I _will not_ tolerate his stare of barely-concealed sympathy. _All right, then. _

As quickly as I can with one hand, I strip the bed of its blankets and carry them to an empty corner. It's hard to arrange them, but I finally get it done and step back, surveying my work. It resembles a very large and messy birds' nest, but it will serve its purpose. _Wait_. I flit to the hallway and peek out through the cracked door. Nothing. I lock it, which takes quite some time with my less-than-nimble fingers, but it is finally done and I am alone.

I pause for just a moment, remembering just a picture of him, so I can avoid him in the future. Dark hair, slight figure but with strong hands— I cannot help laughing bitterly. I spend what seems like a life-age staring at him, and I don't even remember what colour his eyes were. Green like the grass? As blue as Merry's eyes? Grey as the Sea, like my own?

It doesn't matter. I'll make sure I never get close enough to him again to see what colour his eyes are.

_Never get close again, _the little voices say.

Is it despair?Will I never care about anything in this world again? _I just want to die. Just to die. _

_Wayward child, _the little voices say.

Casting a glance at the door to the balcony surreptitiously, I curl up in my nest and wait for sleep— and perhaps now-welcome dreams of blood and battle that will drown out any thought of those few moments when I locked eyes with the Captain of Gondor, and it was I who drew away first.


End file.
